Set List Nineteen is a raw, emotional journey about finding love and becoming utterly desperate to hold onto it—by any means necessary. The album captures the fragile thrill of connection, where fleeting moments of joy and tenderness ignite hope but leave you aching for completeness. From the opening track, "Pretty Gold Bracelet," we feel modest domestic happiness—love that outvalues money or material things. Yet even here, there's a sense of vulnerability, as if this joy might slip away at any moment. "Still Walking the Earth" follows, expressing a willingness to risk everything for a love that feels sacred and life-affirming. Songs like "In the Shape of an Angel" and "Big Shoes" offer quiet affirmations of faith, forgiveness, and trust grounded in lived experience rather than fantasy. "Forever" and "Open and Closed" deepen the emotional stakes, reckoning with the terrifying power and fragility of devotion. "Ten Feet Tall" captures the risk of love—being up so high on emotion, and the ever-present fear of falling. "Bird on a String" questions how much protection is too much, probing the balance between freedom and safety in love. Later tracks like "Unwritten and Unsaid" and "Glass House" explore the cracks in relationships, where truths go unspoken and forgiveness is elusive. "Forget Me Knot" marks the breaking of the bond of matrimony, a painful unraveling of what once was sacred. Finally, "After the Fact" closes the album with a quiet reckoning—an acceptance of loss but also a stubborn refusal to give up. This album is not a fairy tale or a neat redemption story. It's a chronicle of survival—through yearning, heartbreak, and a desperate search for something whole.
Set List Fourteen dives deeply into personal vulnerability, emotional growth, and the nuanced complexities of love, healing, and self-discovery—blending real life, fantasy, fan fiction, dreams, and the naive whirlwind rush of finding a real-life musical superhero who inspires the belief that anything is possible. From the tender intimacy of "Tears of Trust," where two souls become one through honesty and acceptance, to the fragile defenses laid bare in "Paper Thin," the album explores the walls we build and the courage it takes to break them down. "Cutie Pie" is a playful yet sincere celebration of love's intoxicating hold, capturing those moments when affection feels both electrifying and tender. A big chunk of the set's emotional core, especially in songs like "Aum... What She Said... Om" and "Night Light," draws from the great LadyWeaver's poetic and musical meditations on love, the universe, balance, resilience, and mindfulness. Hope shines through in "Night Light" and "Happy Place," creating safe emotional havens amidst life's struggles. "Synergy" captures the magical alignment of creative forces and human connection, while "Making a Killing" embodies the dream of the poet-narrator and trailblazing singer-musician uniting to lead the world toward hope and healing through the transformative power of their music. "Monuments" honors time as a precious gift, and "My Garden" reminds us that growth requires patience. The closing tracks—"Let It Ride," "Riding a Wave," and "Only Shared With You"—embrace acceptance, the ebb and flow of relationships, and the quiet power of private love and truth. Together, this setlist is a soulful meditation on healing, connection, and the strength found in vulnerability.
Song List 5 opens with Night Out, the moment the narrator stops spinning alone in his own orbit and chooses to collide—with intention. That choice triggers an entirely new type of thinking: he goes from being a single atom to forming a bond, becoming an entirely new element, baby! And baby is exactly the right word—because choosing a partner doesn't just change you. It can create a brand new life. This is a set about connection, and how intimacy—once feared—becomes the key to freedom. With each track, the narrator makes more active choices to shape his world. The emotional isolation that defined the earlier set lists begins to dissolve. Vulnerability becomes a source of strength, not risk. Worth the Wait and In the Pouring Rain shimmer with devotion, while Tonight's Moonlight offers a moment of cosmic stillness, where love and nature exist in perfect balance. Fresco captures the act of seeing someone so clearly that it redefines not just your past, but your very sense of self. Tracks like In the Pouring Rain, Tonight's Moonlight, and Fresco stand among the finest examples of the love song genre—timeless compositions that tap into something eternal. They're the ones that make the girls cry, the guys shut up and feel, and the whole world pause for a second to remember what it means to be held.
Song List 8 is the testament to the statement our friend to the pen made when he said upon discovering the LadyWeaver channel on YouTube nearly two decades ago, "You're the one, I'm not sure exactly what that means.... but we are gonna find out!" Every single track is drenched in the profound influence of LadyWeaver—The ONE, known by many names: John Lennon Woman, Denmarkies, A, Dell, Mom, Daughter, Friend, and Sister. She is the muse, the heartbeat behind each word, each note, and each moment of this set. "Stars" throws conventional wisdom out the door and questions the true nature of family, suggesting that wisdom is not found in written scrolls, but in the souls we meet. "Hall of Fame" stands as an anthem to greatness, where the echoes of legends reverberate in the actions of the ordinary. "Ripples" is Denmark girl sharing her gifts with us in the name of pure things rather than being a commercial sellout. "Stranger...Then Fiction" is the writer creating his and his lady's perfect storybook ending, turning a stranger into a lover, with a surreal, otherworldly connection. "First Class" was written on a plane to Denmark, in the spirit of The Beatles' "Back in the USSR," challenging societal expectations and celebrating those who live outside the spotlight but possess undeniable greatness. "Gypsy Mama" recounts a fateful encounter, a chance meeting that turns into a deep, decade-long connection, driven by fate. "Michelangelo and Marble" is a love letter where she is the teacher, and I'm the student, but then suddenly I'm the block of rock, and she's got the chisel, shaping the soul. The set closes with "What I'll Do," a quiet but powerful promise of unwavering devotion. This entire collection is a deep, unapologetic love letter to LadyWeaver, the force that drives every song, every lyric, and every feeling. She isn't just a muse—she is the story, the heart, and the reason for everything.
Song List 9 finds our wandering dreamer in the midst of a life-transforming journey, smack dab in the middle of his quest through a strange land. He will soon be at a crossroads, faced with a path that could lead to love, fame, and success or a dark journey of addiction, loss, and shattered dreams. His heart is guiding him, it will be the compass that sends him on the way! "Fourth Chakra" opens the door to a man waking up in a foreign bed, in a place that feels nothing like home yet beyond language, location, or even color ("Color of Love"), the wandering dreamer embraces the ideal that love is all that matters when you find someone who reminds you of the divine. "Flow" encourages him to surround himself with people who share his aspirations, while "Thunderstorms" reminds him that obstacles will arise, yet perseverance remains the key. "Golden Archer" calls for precision and purpose, urging him to make every shot count because his arrows are limited. "Sure Shore" acknowledges that he is at the precipice, with the world at his fingertips, yet he must not go down in self-defeat. "Smell the Flowers" teaches him to savor each fleeting moment and not let opportunity pass by. "Summer's the Time" reminds him of the simple joys of life and how precious it all is when time is fleeting—Summer is the time for GLORY!! The question lingers: which path will he choose? Which path will choose him? Will he find fame, success, and his own inner peace, or will he stumble, entangled in the darkness of addiction and dreams left unfulfilled? Only time will reveal what's next.
Set List Nine doesn't shout — it stands tall and speaks clearly, with a weathered voice full of purpose and scars. "We Are the Ones" is a workers' anthem dressed in dirt and defiance, refusing invisibility with a nod and a shovel in hand. "Friend" is sunlight through coffee steam, and "Speak" carries quiet urgency — both make connection feel radical without ever raising their voice. "Applied Faith" rebuilds belief as a practical craft, not magic but muscle — something you shape with will and intention. Then the world melts a little: "Slip Stream" and "Sides" harken back to the '60s revolution, as if you just showed up on the cover of Sgt. Pepper, grinning sideways through paisley smoke, dreaming of a better dimension and damn near believing you could reach it. "Invisible Prison" floats the idea that the only real bars are mental — and the key's already in your hand. "Better Than It Seems" drifts through hard-won clarity, asking whether arrival is real or just another mirage. "First Glance" and "Complicated Subject" pan wide across time, war, memory, and the wounded planet we keep promising to fix. "Fate Is a Word" delivers gospel from a man who's done the math and knows better, and "Believe Me" closes the door with a half-smile and full truth. Set List Nine isn't hallucinating. It's remembering. And the revolution still echoes in its boots.
Set List Eight opens like a broadcast from inside the mind at midnight — static, signal, and something half-true in between. "Thirty Seconds" starts the countdown: a desperate plea to wake up before the final tick, to tune out the noise and find what's left of yourself. "Playing Chess" turns war into metaphor and back again, where soldiers, addicts, and pawns blur into one fallen figure just trying to break the board. In "Sky and Light," perception fractures under the pressure of burnout and urban ruin, searching for beauty through the smoke. "Discartes" and "I Am" dismantle identity itself, dragging faith, ego, and empire into a spiral of dream logic and bitter defiance. "Timeless to Ten" offers a quiet thesis — that reaching a few minds with meaning beats entertaining millions with emptiness. The second half hits like a spiral: "Listen," "Fear," and "Down" catch the soul slipping, clawing, begging for clarity in the face of failure and hesitation. "Spinning" pulls inward to the edge of collapse — the temple cracked, the soldier alone, still fighting from within. And "Somewhere" closes with a soft exhale: a quiet plea that love, faith, and meaning still exist... not here, maybe, but somewhere.
Set List Three wakes up alone, pissed off, and pacing the room. "Advice" opens with a cry for direction, but the answers come back warped, like voices underwater. There's humor here — but it's bitter, like laughing in the mirror while breaking it. "F the W" smokes out the sadness and flips off the void, while "Another" and "The Spot" look for love (or at least someone warm) before the lights come back on. The club becomes confession booth; the dance floor, a therapy session with a backbeat. These poems run on adrenaline and impulse, chasing validation and numbness in the same breath. "Blank Pages" turns the whole thing upside down — revealing that behind all the swagger and wisecracks is a writer terrified of wasting his life. "The Game" ends it with stadium lights, a swing and a miss, and a head held high anyway. Set List Three isn't just about fighting demons — it's about partying with them and trying to make peace before morning.
Set List One plays like a news report from the edge of the world, filed by a broken poet with nothing left to lose. "Puzzle Pieces" sets the mood — mistrust, disconnection, the static between stations. The voice here is human, cracked but lucid, unraveling capitalism, addiction, silence, and guilt. Each piece hints at something lost: youth, innocence, sobriety, maybe even God. "Pen and Paper" wages war against the weight of the world, while "Exit the Sandman" kicks sleep out the door to hunt memories that don't want to be remembered. Political paranoia and personal failure blur like headlines melting in the rain. "Climbing the Ladder" is both an overdose and a survival guide. By the time "My Precious" arrives, we're drowning in gold-plated poverty and false kings. And then, quietly, "Let Me In" asks for grace — not fame, just a place to rest, to feel, to begin again.
Song List 6 unfolds as an emotional journey that lets the listener witness the breakdown of love and self, positioned as the opposite axis to Song List 5. Song List 5 was one giant love song while this is an unlove, an anti-love, a no love song. It's a stark antithesis to the traditional love song, where love is not an uplifting force but a source of pain, loss, and self-reckoning. Every song strips away the idealized version of romantic connection, revealing instead the fear, betrayal, and inevitable endings that come with it. Come For a Ride captures the gut-wrenching moment of knowing you have to leave someone behind, while Where I Am From is the one act where you get to steal love away as a traveler finds you. Yet in this play, happiness is short-lived, as what seemed to be happy was just sadness well-veiled. How Can You explores the guilt and confusion of the emotional aftermath. Breaking Her Heart dives deeper into the struggle of loving someone without being able to give all of yourself, and The Nature of Man takes this further, portraying man as the serpent—the symbol of primal desires and self-destructive actions. Throughout the set, the themes of abandonment, betrayal, and self-exile persist, with the traveler unable to outrun the weight of their past. Each song questions the true nature of love, challenging the listener to consider whether love is an act of salvation or a doomed cycle of emotional turmoil.
Song List 1 serves as an introduction to our author and narrator's life, times, and struggles, where he lays bare his core values and explains his reasons for continuing the fight, despite a long list of hardships that might make anyone else quietly bow out. The overarching theme is a declaration of resilience and purpose, as the narrator insists on pressing forward, undeterred by life's challenges. Knowing the Know opens the set with a quiet rebellion, where the narrator rejects conventional wisdom, emphasizing the value of personal insight over external instruction. Nevermore delves into self-reflection and a powerful declaration of change, where the narrator vows never to repeat past mistakes, marking a turning point in his journey. Here and Now explores the transient nature of life, urging action in the present moment, as the narrator contemplates the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Cost of War gives voice to the scars left by conflict—both external and internal—depicting the lingering emotional toll of war, loss, and survival. Deep Seeded is the fate that awaits the man who turns away from his dreams for the known, a bleak portrait of a life spent in routine, haunted by unfulfilled aspirations and the weight of choices unmade. Fallen Walls is the blueprint that power uses to stay in control, offering a way to resist and break free from the treadmill that life has placed before the narrator. Singer Songwriter shows that the choice to fight has been made, with the narrator fully conscious of the role he must play, even when it's not always a pleasant one. Gift is the talent the narrator recognizes as his own, summoned to use it for the greater good—unlocking potential for positive change rather than personal gain.
Song List 3 — September 11th and your name's about to be on a God Damn monument… A wave of remembrance crashes over you, as your life's journey unfolds not as a movie, but as a series of felt songs. You remember how you once searched for love in all the wrong places, but "Looking for Love" now reminds you how far you've come. Slowly, through the years, you've learned that imperfections weren't obstacles — they were blessings, as "Perfect Imperfections" reveals. The mistakes, the struggles, and the pain have all shaped you into the person you are today. As "Carry Me" plays, you reflect on the faith you found in the darkest moments. You understand now that peace doesn't come from avoiding the storm, but from standing strong in it, just as "Oasis" reminds you. "End of the Road" signals that you've completed your journey, and every trial, every victory, has brought you here — to this moment of clarity. A photograph of a deer, shot with YOUR camera and not your gun, symbolizes your choice to spare life instead of taking it in "Right Between the Eyes" where you face the truth of your actions — choosing mercy over violence, peace over destruction. Your friends and family, genuinely mourning your death, will act as your lasting photograph — the real and unfiltered mark of your life, a living tribute to the love and goodness you left behind you. Yeah, that's a god damn monument! As "It Is Your Turn" fades, you see that your life wasn't wasted. It was a testament to growth, redemption, and the strength to rise above. You've earned your peace, and you're ready to meet your maker with pride.
Song List 4 opens with the haunting image of wandering souls from past lives, yearning for their place in the afterlife or some other realm. Their restless energy fills the air, echoing with a longing for belonging, but they are uncertain, trapped in a state of broken dreams and unresolved destinies. This ethereal, liminal space reflects the narrator's own turmoil—he finds himself amidst these same wandering spirits, lost in that landscape of uncertainty and broken aspirations. The weight of unfulfilled desires and lost purpose hangs over him, as he struggles to reconcile his own path with the mysteries of the universe. In the first half of the song list, the narrator navigates this inner chaos. With tracks like Fallen Clouds and Stranded, we feel the isolation and the sinking weight of his emotional struggles, mirroring the lost souls he sees. Coming of Fall tells the story of one of these last souls, wandering aimlessly, allowing the narrator to see what awaits him if he fails in his quest for purpose and redemption. Yet, as the album progresses, the tone shifts. Breaking the Chains shows that your inner weakness is not something to be outrun—you must face it. One Slip of the Knife explores that moment of darkness and irreversible action, when a person falters at the edge of despair. It captures the thin line between survival and surrender, and the pain of a choice that cannot be undone. Overrated realizes that only one person can actually be the best—and you probably ain't the guy. But that's not the point. Once you can look yourself in the mirror and not hate what you see, you give yourself a chance. That's when Maybe Someday could actually be today. By the end of the set, with songs like First Place, Sleepwalkers, and Concrete People, the narrator moves from despair to realization, deciding that he's no longer a prisoner of his circumstances. And in Fight for Peace, he takes a stand, offering not just resolution but a call to collective transformation.
Song List 10 seems to trace the emotional evolution of a character through different stages of reflection, pain, and growth. The songs vary in scope—from deeply personal songs of loss and self-doubt like Snowflakes (which hints at a potential suicide on a snowy night) and Old Eli, to broader societal and existential critiques like Pennywise (caring deeply about the less important while squandering the most significant things) and Broken Mirror (where the protagonist's view of a particular person or subject is tossed on its head, causing a seismic shift in their belief system). The protagonist seems to be grappling with the tension between pursuing personal freedom and the inevitable consequences of such pursuits—whether it's dealing with the burdens of history (Harry Patch), confronting inner demons (Pennywise), or seeking personal redemption (Leaving Your Roots). The progression from Snowflakes to Julia's Garden suggests a journey through self-doubt, chaos, and disillusionment toward a kind of hopeful sanctuary—a garden that symbolizes peace, acceptance, and a sense of meaning. Despite the brokenness and turbulence in the middle, as represented in Broken Mirror and House of Shattered Glass, the protagonist finds themselves constantly moving toward something more profound. The songs evoke a mixture of melancholy and hope, underscoring the ups and downs of life as the wandering dreamer seeks a sense of direction.
Song List 2 is not only a journey through heartbreak with others but also a failed quest for love with oneself—an unshakable reckoning with the self that leaves no room for denial or escape. Dead End, originally framed as advice to another, is actually a warning to the self—a mirror monologue where the narrator pleads with his past or future self to change course before it's too late. Alison's Airplane is a thinly veiled metaphor for Alcoholics Anonymous, where the author sits in the church basement reading slogans on the wall, grasping for something larger than himself to keep from sinking again. Warmer Waters maps a search for transcendence that spirals into addiction, betrayal, and disillusionment, until the narrator finally confronts himself in the mirror. The Light or the White pushes that reckoning further, casting "light" as clarity, purpose, or recovery, and "white" as cocaine—forcing a brutal choice between salvation and self-destruction. She paints a devastating portrait of a woman crushed by patriarchy and circumstance—her horses chained, her fate sealed, her soul never quite freed. Curves of Sorrow captures a man frozen in the amber of his own despair, staring into the bottom of a bottle while imagining a life he'll never live. Table for Two captures the ache of long-distance love, born from the author's real-life experience Skyping a woman in Denmark—close in heart, but oceans apart. Bottom of the Lake is where the narrator ends up—literally and metaphorically—tied to a symbolic boulder, declaring that even drowning is lighter than carrying the weight of a toxic relationship. Trash Can offers a funeral for a failed love, the narrator burning every remnant in a trash can in a final, desperate purge. Sandcastles sums up the futility of building anything lasting on unstable ground. And You Can Never Run Away From Yourself closes the set with a stark truth: no matter how far you try to escape, your own shadow and past will always catch up to you.
Song List 7 is an emotional warzone, where love and its dark opposite, unlove, battle for dominance, each song pulling you deeper into the chaos. The set begins with a hopeful note, exemplified by tracks like Unity and Matchmaker, which highlight the desire for connection and the potential for lasting love. These songs reflect a yearning for togetherness, where the possibility of a shared future is still within reach. However, the set quickly shifts to regretful tracks like Frames and Used to Be, where the narrator reflects on what was lost or could have been, filled with missed opportunities, mistakes, and lingering pain. Blessing in Disguise and Little Bird introduce a bittersweet tone, finding silver linings in pain or deceit, though the happiness they promise feels fleeting and tinged with sorrow. Train represents a failure of love, capturing the abandonment and disappointment when promises aren't kept, and hope fades away. Half Full embodies the struggle of being an optimist when realism might be the better option, yet the narrator resists accepting that truth, hoping to hold on to a more idealistic view of love. Untitled Unlabeled represents the pinnacle of pure feeling for someone, the top of the mountain in terms of emotional devotion, and an idealistic, almost unattainable connection. Finally, Dust to Dust and Trying Times capture the disillusioned aspect of love, as the characters come to terms with the impermanence of relationships and emotional struggles. Throughout Song List 7, the listener is taken on a journey of heartbreak, growth, and introspection, with each track offering a different emotional ending.
Set List Two doesn't knock — it kicks the door off its hinges and starts shouting truth at anyone left standing. These poems burn with confrontation, battling hive minds, violence-as-policy, and fractured brotherhood. "Rest In Power" isn't mourning — it's a resurrection in fire. "B.F.T." and "Status Quo Woes" throw punches at broken systems and the men who profit from collapse. There are war cries disguised as rhymes and raw diary entries that end with gunpowder instead of ink. Nothing here is safe, and that's the point. "Unwinnable" dares you to keep playing a rigged game while "Rival" and "Violence Is Their Solution" declare open war on apathy. These aren't just poems — they're pipe bombs in pretty envelopes. By the time we reach "Multiverse," the only thing left to question is which version of reality we were supposed to be living in all along.
Set List Ten punches the gas pedal into political paranoia, media satire, and scorched-earth realism. It opens with "History to Me," a generational roast of cultural memory and celebrity sellouts, where nostalgia is a rigged game and no one escapes judgment. "Pushing the Button" warns of nuclear consequences with a punk rock snarl, a fiery middle finger to global complacency. "Heresy Speaks No Evil" takes the longest, loudest breath in the set — an urgent, tumbling rant against corruption, inequality, and mass distraction, echoing Ginsberg through a modern, media-choked megaphone. "Obamafication" captures the disillusionment of a Democratic base that hoped their vote might finally bring real change — only to watch their candidate serve corporate overlords instead. Yeah, he talked good… but that's all it was. "Shadow Boxing" and "Picture Something Nice" navigate street-level trauma and moral detachment, contrasting poetic grit with the numbness of apathy. "Pardon Me" cranks the cynicism to eleven, a darkly funny, whip-smart indictment of American politics where truth is a stunt and corruption is the game. "Birthright" pivots into anthemic protest, calling out hypocrisy with melodic soul and echoing Dylan's urgency in a millennial voice. "Shades" tosses racial division under the microscope, concluding that surface means nothing without soul. And "Another History Lesson" closes the set as both mission statement and battle cry: angry, poetic, and unafraid to sound madder than the Mad Hatter. Set Ten is political punk-folk with a conscience and a bite — and it's coming for your soapbox, whether you're ready or not.
Set List Eleven opens with the buzz of fluorescent lights and the echo of worn-out shoes on tiled floors. This time, our narrator isn't trying to change the world; he's just trying to make it through the night. "Love It or Leave It" sets the tone — a defiant personal mantra wrapped in mirrors and doubt. "Groovy Gravy" follows in a haze of breakdown and breakthrough, a groan through madness that somehow finds melody. "Devil's Friend" and "Disciple of Dirt" wrestle openly with temptation, addiction, and the cost of chasing truth when the truth doesn't want to be caught. "Moth" drifts into flame, fusing fatalism with fragile beauty. "Insomnia" takes up the midnight torch, pacing the room with too much knowledge and not enough rest. "Thick Skin" aches with withheld pain and battered pride, a jagged lullaby. "Time's Up" screams its warning into the surf, a bruised survivor's anthem for those who learned too late not to play with fire. "Kicking the Can" adds some dry humor to heartbreak, finding poetry in getting dumped and walking away with a garbage bag full of dreams. "Hey Waiter" slow dances with longing, chivalry, and quiet hunger. "Cement" is poured from revolution — rage and rhetoric baked into the foundation of modern despair. "Fancy Words" strips back all the clever tricks and speaks directly, clearly, urgently — as if the writer's soul depends on it. "Dancefloor" sends us off with one final cigarette and a crooked smile, choosing joy for a night — because the rest will still be broken come morning.
Set List Sixteen wrestles openly with spiritual doubt, personal contradiction, and the raw pursuit of meaning through creativity, self-honesty, and resilience. These are meditations from the edge—on religion, love, truth, and the lonely climb toward belief in something greater, even if that "something" is simply your own voice. The author tumbles through this emotional wash cycle like a man trapped in a spiritual washing machine, hoping to come out clean. "Hypocrites" and "Tom's Psalm" set the tone with biting critiques of organized faith and institutional failure, framing the poet not as a preacher but as a searcher. "Lost and Found" and "Triangle" examine the agony of love not returned, and how time complicates what the heart can't let go. "Crystal Ball" and "Walking Paradox" lay bare a fractured psyche: indecision, contradiction, and the tension between freedom and responsibility. Tracks like "How and When" and "Kneeling" find strength in surrender, embracing vulnerability not as weakness but as the first step toward healing. "Best Left" captures the bittersweet ache of outgrowing what once defined you, while "Chameleon" celebrates adaptability and the hope of mutual transformation. "The Light" is a mythic emotional journey from loneliness to spiritual illumination, told through pure imagery and aching hope. By the time we reach "Learn From the Masters" and "Never Be," the poet has stripped away false idols and self-doubt, emerging as a student of truth, driven not by fame but by purpose. Set List Sixteen becomes a poetic gospel for anyone stumbling through the dark, still believing the light is worth chasing. If you're dirty, it's time to get clean!
Set List 20 plays like a lyrical companion to The Catcher in the Rye — a modern-day Holden Caulfield tracing boot prints through the static of his own unraveling. It's been nearly 75 years since J.D. Salinger wrote that book, but some things stay timeless: the alienation, the bitterness, the longing for truth in a world full of phonies. This is that same restless voice, amplified by tight-knit rhyming, just waiting for the fingerstroke of a guitar and the opening lyric to "Running Free" being bellowed from the back of the room. The narrator doesn't flinch, doesn't posture — he just walks the edge. On "Undefeated," he shrugs off winning or losing — he's just trying to stay awake. "Fields of Time" and "New Sight" ache with the tension between who you were and who the world demands you become. "Rock Star Dreams" trades prep school angst for fame-fueled delusion, still reaching for something pure behind the smoke and mirrors. "Perfect World" dismantles capitalism and self-help clichés with the same biting honesty Holden aimed at his teachers and therapists. There's no damn carousel at the end here — just "Another Quarter" rattling in the jukebox of regret and unspoken fear. Every track wrestles with identity, purpose, and the impulse to just disappear. But instead of asking where the ducks go in winter, he's asking where the soul goes when it runs out of places to hide. This isn't nostalgia — it's a reckoning. Set List 20 isn't trying to save anyone. It's just holding the mirror steady, hoping somebody finally looks.
Set List Four opens with a marriage on life support and ends in a scream for redemption. "Married to Something Else" sets the table with whiskey breath and cold dinners, a love worn thin by routine and regret. The speakers here know pain — not the poetic kind, but the bleeding, late-night, "where did I go wrong?" kind. "Watering the Weeds" rips out the delusions by their roots, and "Rest In Peace" turns a house fire into a twisted punchline. Addiction hangs over the whole set like smoke in a motel room. "Rat Park" and "Rehab" aren't cautionary tales — they're firsthand accounts, too close to be comfortable. These poems fidget, tremble, and confess. "Alcohol" plays like a love letter to poison, and "Empty Bottle" echoes with questions nobody wants to answer. But in "Let Me Live the Dream," hope cracks through the chaos — a raw prayer that maybe, just maybe, there's still a way out.
Set List Twelve rides the brutal, beautiful rollercoaster of love — its lifts, its drops, its crashes, and the quiet courage it takes just to try. Across twelve emotional swings, it charts the wreckage of hearts, the echoes of pain, and the stubborn hope that somehow we keep going anyway. "Bite of the Apple" opens as a confessional confrontation, wrestling with guilt, temptation, and the search for truth between lovers. "Empty Eyes" plays the silent grief of a man who can't show what he feels — his face blank, his soul burning. "On the Rocks" gives the mic to the woman left out in the rain, all bridal dreams drowned in heartbreak and regret. "Smitty's Anthem (No Tears)" is pure gallows swagger — a punked-up self-eulogy for the emotionally wrecked. Then comes "Victim of Fate," where trauma is inherited and detachment is survival. "Dora" goes fully unhinged: manic, raunchy, and raw like a bar fight in rhyme form. "Get Outta My House" slams the door on marriage with a full theater of chaos — vases, hoses, and the long fade to legal separation. "Valentine Woes" captures the lonely holiday blues with wry intimacy, while "This Very Room" haunts the reader with unresolved grief and ghostly jealousy. "Smiles and Frowns" seesaws between bitterness and healing, as the narrator crawls out of sadness one grin at a time. "Underrated" is an anthem for the failed dreamer — one who's walked the road, burned the pages, and learned to live with the smoke. "Clinical Depression" ends the set with devastating honesty, playing out a family's dialogue over a suicide attempt with brutal clarity and heart. This set list doesn't fake hope, but it earns it — by refusing to look away from what love, loss, and life really feel like.
Set List Thirteen pulls no punches in calling out the corrupt political leaders who ignore the will of the people while spreading "permanent lies" to keep their grip on power. Lobbyists and wealthy corporations are painted as puppeteers, rigging the system, gutting communities, and turning entire countries into commodities under cold, calculated greed. The justice system grinds on like a machine, locking up the vulnerable while shielding the powerful from consequence. Media complicity runs deep, as songs like "East Timor" expose how genocide is hidden behind propaganda and silence, while "Poorest Chorus" details the Walmartization of America—a brutal economic siege that crushes small businesses and moral fiber alike. Tracks such as "Gate Keeper" reveal the dark bargains struck behind closed doors, and "Gettin' Juiced" dives into the O.J. Simpson case to expose how fame, money, and power manipulate justice and equality. The legacy of colonization haunts "Staking the Flag," portraying conquest as a trail of tears soaked in blood and broken promises. Political parties are reduced to empty distractions in "United We Stand," where fractured unity and hollow rhetoric mask the nation's decline. Capitalism's insatiable hunger fuels endless wars, as "Permanent Lies" warns of infinite conflicts born from twisted truths and greed. This set list stands as a fiery indictment of systemic corruption and societal apathy, demanding listeners awaken and fight back before the damage becomes irreversible. It's a raw, unfiltered protest carved into song — a call to consciousness in a world dangerously close to collapse.
Set List Fifteen is a fierce, unflinching confrontation with the broken systems, internal struggles, and collective madness of modern life—blending righteous anger, philosophical reflection, and dark humor in equal measure. The narrator is no longer whispering from behind the curtain; he's stepping forward, pen in hand, daring the world to flinch. Tracks like "Shield" and "Story of My Life" expose the paralyzing weight of hesitation and self-doubt, while "Floating Head" and "Messy Room" paint surreal portraits of emotional collapse. "Come To Me" and "Other Times" tackle institutional oppression with sharp-eyed clarity, calling out political manipulation, spiritual decay, and the fraying fabric of community. "Flim Flam Man" doesn't just name names—it lights the match, marching forward with a revolutionary fury. "Solving Problems" and "Heavy Machines" channel that rage into momentum, using grit and wit to strike back at the systems that crush hope. But it's not all fire and fists: "Monarch" reveals the quiet suffering beneath bravado, and "Brain Games" and "Chit Chat Chatter" show how the damage spreads through even the smallest daily exchanges. By the time "Sign of the Times" closes out the set, the message is clear: the poet is no longer content to survive the chaos—he's rallying anyone who can still feel to rise up and fight back.
Set List Six isn't the UFC's Bo Nickal, the hyped-up young prospect getting the royal treatment with soft matchups and bright lights. It's Jim Fucking Miller — 20 years in, over 4,500 strikes absorbed, still grinding it out on short notice with blood in his mouth and a smirk under his mustache. "Hideaway" kicks things off like an episode of Two and a Half Men, with you playing Charlie Sheen — women, booze, and total denial — just wait until you, the audience, see how it ends. "Look Her Up" and "No Thanks Babe" wear smirks, but underneath, they're hiding bruises that never faded. These pieces wrestle with temptation, isolation, and longing, asking whether connection is worth the pain it usually brings. "In a Jiffy" plays like a rushed escape — not from danger, but from responsibility. There's humor, but it's strained; there's lust, but it's laced with loneliness. "Fifty Ways" isn't metaphor — it's literal: fifty raw, graphic, wildly inventive ways to copulate with your lover, straddling the line between satire and softcore instruction manual. By the time "She Don't Cum Easy" hits, the truth is obvious: this is a man out of moves. But even here, at the bottom of the bottle and the end of the joke, Set List Six still throws a wink — bruised, not broken… and still jokin'.
Set List Seventeen detonates like a confessional grenade, scattering sex, politics, comedy, and collapse in every direction. These tracks revel in poetic whiplash—where social commentary slams into gallows humor, and raw heartbreak gets doused in sarcasm, beer foam, and existential doubt. "Spreading the Word" answers the dark joke of "save the world, kill yourself," and wrestles with why surrendering isn't an option. "Beware of the Snoogins" comes alive like a wild Jerry Springer episode—not the viral "cash me outside" girl, but the chaotic, messy family drama that plays out in real life. "Dot Dot Space" is the joke—the b*tch was so blind, how blind was she? I wrote her a song in f%$#ing braille. Meanwhile, "Empty Room" delves into the complexities of a threesome you definitely don't want to have, exposing emotional pitfalls and awkward truths. Tracks like "Flyswatter of Love," "Times Up," and "Sunday Morning Sex" add layers of painful longing, bitter reckoning, and unapologetic irreverence. Throughout, the set bursts with unflinching honesty and sharp wit, painting a vivid picture of modern life's contradictions and the messy search for connection amid chaos.
If politics has ever felt like performance art, Zionation proves it. From the first line of "Kayfabe," where the world is declared "warped and crooked as hell," the album slams the listener with a fearless, no-holds-barred dissection of power, media, and complicity. Tom Jensen doesn't just comment on the world—he throws it under the microscope, shakes it, and dares you to look away. Tracks like "Bribe the Poor Blackmail the Rich" and "One Step Higher" deliver a mix of satire, outrage, and raw observation that recalls Rage Against the Machine's political fury, but with a distinctly anarchic, almost absurdist twist. There's humor in chaos ("Catch a Stray") and horror in bureaucracy ("Sun, Moon and Truth"), creating a rollercoaster where outrage and reflection coexist in the same breath. Zionation is confrontational, unapologetic, and exhausting in the best way. It's not for casual listeners; it demands attention and a willingness to squirm under uncomfortable truths. It's audacious, unflinching, and necessary—a political firestorm set to music. Set List 23 acts as both a precursor to the future as well as documentation of recent history regarding the road to America's ruination. The old are dying. The young are learning. How does the story end? To be continued.
Set List Seven doesn't imagine the end of the world — it just opens the blinds. This one feels real because it is: each track pulls from lived moments, overheard confessions, and headlines too close to home. "Corey Story" opens with fatherless ache and a cigarette-burned childhood, setting the tone for an album that never lets the wound scab over. "Daddy Taught Me" follows like a Gene Hackman movie set in Mississippi, all smoke, silence, and mission-burning menace just offscreen. "Shadow of Smoke" floats like grief itself—intangible, everywhere, impossible to hold. The body count rises with "Wheat and Chaff," a tribute in fragments, haunted by the quiet collapse of Anthony Bourdain—a man who saw the whole world and still couldn't find a place to stand. "Midas Touch" burns what's left of success culture to the ground, exposing the blue-lipped corpse underneath all that gold. "Sniper's Song" lands last and coldest: a pair of ghosts in a sedan, calm as Sunday, watching the world fall one shot at a time—lifted directly from The Washington Post, October 4, 2002, when the DC Sniper left a note at the scene and the country held its breath. These aren't just poems—they're witness statements. There's no redemptive arc here, only fire and fallout. And for the record, said Corey works for the state now, doing better than the author in the eyes of Our Lord.
Set List Eighteen is the alternate, darker path—a direct divergence from Set List Fourteen's Making a Killing, which told the redemptive story of a poet and his guitar-playing, gift-from-god-voice-singing, head-turning muse who stay together, lift each other up, and inspire a broken world to heal. That first path led to inspiration. To redemption. To forgiveness. This one doesn't. This is the worst-case scenario of a poet who has lost everything. How does someone who once gave the world hope end up taking a life? "Gauging Time" starts in a jail cell—and from that enclosed space, the descent begins. Grief and rage hollow him out after the death of LadyWeaver. The world fractures. He breaks with it. And where Set List Fourteen chose the light, Set List Eighteen gives in to the storm. Political unrest, personal turmoil, and spiritual rot thread through each song. "War Leonard 19" and "Battle Cry" rage against false prophets, failing systems, and manufactured conflict. "Free Speech" shows the cost of telling the truth. "Beast" shows the cost of keeping it in. There are moments of flickering light. "Flicker" hangs on to belief. "Hidden Evils" walks us through ordinary despair. But as the set progresses—through "Patching the Hole," "Enemy of This State," and "Building a Castle"—we see the walls go up. The poet isolates. Cuts off the exits. Loses track of who he is. "Cliffhanger" and "Happy Birthday to Me" pull us into deep reflection and loneliness. By the time we reach "Apocalypse Now, See Ya Later," the war is internal, total, and already lost. "Wave My Hands" ends the set not in triumph, but in grim resolve—the final echo of someone who once meant well and now can't remember why.
Set List Five barges in shirtless with a smirk and a hard-on, aiming low and hitting hard. "Mic Drop" sets the tone — a gleefully obscene circus of sex, swagger, and zero apologies. This isn't love; it's lust in overdrive, where "One Night Stan" and "Meet Michael Hawk" flip the playboy archetype into a grotesque cartoon. Every punchline is a red flag, waved proudly. Beneath the raunch and braggadocio, there's a raw kind of sadness — the desperate ego of someone terrified of being irrelevant. "Fifty Ways" and "Cinnabon Girl" reveal the rot behind the seduction, dripping with parody and shame. The laughter here is always double-edged — half joy, half recoil. These aren't locker room stories; they're confessions from a man who's seen too much porn and not enough love. By the time "She Don't Cum Easy" rolls around, you realize it's not just sex being exposed — it's loneliness. And if you're not laughing, you're probably crying.
Set List 21 pans in slowly: there's a figure, but you can't see his face — just the silhouette of a disheveled traveler, framed like a Tim Burton nightmare stumbling through fog. He turns — and you see his face. It's Beetlejuice… no wait, it's our Wordsmith! This final collection opens with "Shell," a minimalist gut-punch of a piece that redefines emptiness, isolation, and post-belief burnout. "Ten Percent Tom" sums up the last 15 rotten years since returning from Denmark in a failed quest to win the hand of the fair LadyWeaver — only to scurry back across the ocean in defeat and self-loathing. "Uh, That's Christmas Nana" delivers holiday confusion with an absurdist wink, a comical nod to memory, age, and misplaced car keys. "Man Enough" and "Never Expect It" form a brutal domestic violence diptych, one told from both sides of the fist — a pair of stark, bitter bursts where justice and vengeance blur to the point of mutual destruction. "Partner in Crime," inspired by Leonard Cohen, becomes a hushed, haunted benediction — so when you sing it, do him proud. "Hurting Her Knees and Pride" plays like a garage-rock smirk about parking lot passion and teenage shame, a twisted coming-of-age through Dad's worst nightmare. "Dom-Vio" spoofs Van Morrison while torching the NFL's complicit silence around violence, slinging satire at Roger Goodell in perfect parody form. "Fuzzy Math" turns into a bedtime story from George W. Bush the Second to little Jenna — a sickly sweet nursery rhyme about race, wealth, and systemic rot that somehow makes you laugh and recoil in equal measure. "Rumours From Heaven" is one of the wittiest, weirdest pieces in the entire catalog — an afterlife fantasia where all the dead rock stars form a celestial house band, trading verses in their own signature voices, jamming across clouds, and cracking jokes only ghosts could deliver. Then comes the monster: "Venus" makes up approximately 52.1% of the total word count for Set List 21 — a towering monologue of heartbreak, betrayal, illness, and revenge that dwarfs its neighbors in both length and emotional intensity.
Set List 22 — Inherent Absence plunges the listener into the void left by lost connections, fame, and fractured sanity. From "Another Epic Poem," it juxtaposes private pain with outward composure, setting the tone of tension between concealment and confession. "Stars and Strangers" captures fleeting beauty and hope amid existential wandering. "Kill the Seed" confronts technological paranoia and questions of control and freedom. Mid-album tracks like "Diddy Mockumentary Parody" and "Lick My Toes Ho" embrace surreal, grotesque humor and explicit chaos. "My Fan Fiction" and "Perfect" explore longing, imperfection, and the illusions of freedom. "Act Fasting" meditates on indecision and the consequences of inaction. The album oscillates between humor, horror, and sincere vulnerability, refusing easy resolution, daring the listener to confront life's absurdity and messy truths. One could argue Set List 22 serves as a bridge between the rest of the collection and the forthcoming Set Lists 23 and 24, connecting established themes with new emotional, structural, and stylistic directions. It threads continuity while hinting at shifts in tone, inviting listeners to anticipate the contrasts and evolutions ahead. "When You're Hammered" leaves the album on a raw, chaotic note, a culmination of reckless impulses and unfiltered human behavior. It is both cathartic and cautionary, a final plunge into the absurdity and vulnerability that threads through the entire collection.
Brace yourself. Bi Ride or Die Ride is not an album—it's an experience, and one that will leave most listeners either laughing, horrified, or both. From the first track, "Reading I Blow (Rainbow)," it throws social taboos, sexual norms, and moral comfort zones into a blender and hits puree. This is music designed to shock, unsettle, and confront, unapologetically laying bare the messy, raw, and often chaotic reality of human sexuality. Tracks like "I've Been Slappin'" and "Grindr Diaries" combine hyperbolic humor with sexual extremity, while "Alex Jones in a Rabbit Hole" and "Browser History" lampoon public figures, media obsessions, and the dark corners of the internet with a tongue-in-cheek vulgarity that few could pull off. The album's themes are brazenly bisexual, pansexual, and overtly erotic, tackling fantasies, fetishes, risky behavior, and provocative satire with equal enthusiasm. Bi Ride or Die Ride doesn't flirt with subtlety—it crushes it. Each song is a microcosm of rebellion against prudishness, moral policing, and the polished veneer of contemporary pop culture. It is outrageous, chaotic, and undeniably inventive, blending shock value with a strangely meticulous narrative of sexual exploration and anarchic humor. For adult listeners who can stomach the extreme, the album offers both comedy and social commentary through sex, satire, and surreal storytelling. Sex, satire, chaos, and bravado: the loudest, filthiest, and most fearless set yet.